


The pot and the kettle

by visbs88



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, Explicit Language, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, One Shot, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, Aldo Raine has dreamed the theatre exploding.<br/>Christmas is a couple of days away and four months ago his daughter was born, and he has dreamed the fucking theatre blowing up – the ticking thereabout his ankle, the silence, the emptiness and then the fire.<br/>[...] And so, while in the next room his daughter is sleeping and his wife is watching TV in the living room, the daydream he has been refining for a long time begins.<br/>It is the one in which he takes some more gratifications for himself, because the OSS and the U.S. have left the responsibility and the honor to look after the charming and sly Colonel Hans Landa to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The pot and the kettle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This is the very first fanfiction this Italian author is posting in English. I'm pretty sure the translation is not perfect, just try to have mercy -- even if I will accept all the suggestion you would like to give me! This was also my first work about Inglourious Basterds and my first non-con. Hope you enjoy it, please do not ignore the warnings!

Tonight, Aldo Raine has dreamed the theatre exploding.

Christmas is a couple of days away and four months ago his daughter was born, and he has dreamed the fucking theatre blowing up – the ticking thereabout his ankle, the silence, the emptiness and then the fire.

He taps on the desk with the tip of his knife.

It hasn't been a nightmare. The feeling of being there, among the elegant Krauts in the audience, and of annihilate them while they were exulting and laughing and clapping at the exploits of another damned fellow of theirs, the feeling hasn't been distressing, nor dreadful, nor any other bullshit.

It has been a jittery and unbearable frustration to wake him, the same that now is thumping on his mind and is making his fingers clenching around the hilt of his blade. He knows very well what exactly is causing it: it's because the dream hasn't been and never will be real, but most of all because he shouldn't wish it to be. He shouldn't. And yet he is lingering on it – he has a halcyon present that had been a step close to become a non-existent future, full only of oblivion; his daughter is sleeping in the next room and his mind is still sticking onto the night at the theatre.

The knife shines in the white light that comes from the window, it is about to snow. The Congressional Medal of Honor flashes too. Would it be there in the dust even if everything had happened as it was supposed to? Well, in the Hell he wouldn't have given a fuck. For sure, if he isn't in the Hell right now and he has got that medal there in the dust and he can see it it's just _one person's_ fault – yes, fault, damn it.

It's not the first time memories and dreams knock on his door, and it's not the first time Aldo puts up with it trying at least not –  _not, not, shit_ – to think about  _him_ . But it's impossible, as it has been impossible wriggling from the fucking krauts when they dragged him away from the end to throw him into the amicable arms of a painfully hateful escape, as it has been impossible saying no, as it has been impossible changing course from then and on.

He rubs the handle of the knife with his thumb, harshly; he almost tries to scratch it.

A great agreement. A Jewish-blood-dripping war ended. He has done well. The problem is that – the tip nearly pierces into the wood, is there an inch of that desk which is truly neat anymore? The problem is that a single swastika is not enough for that bastard. It is not. It is a minim. He should have understood it at once, before the OSS took him away. Or at least before he got the damn medal  _with him_ and because  _he_ has asked it; Donnie's parents were there, shit, Donnie's parents and a fucking Nazi with a fucking swastika on his forehead, hidden anxiously behind the fucking bangs, and they have given him it as well, the medal, him and Donnie's parents and Omar's sister. He had believed for long that Nazis without uniform pissed him off, but he had to live that absolute  _shit_ to really feel like punching the world to its pieces because of the anger.

 

If for total random reasons a carton happens to be in his house, he has learned to manage to not throw it away. He folds it and he puts it under his desk, only for those special occasions: to pick up a piece of it and make some art. He needs it.

And so, while in the next room his daughter is sleeping and his wife is watching TV in the living room, the daydream he has been refining for a long time begins.

It is the one in which he takes some more gratifications for himself, because the OSS and the U.S. have left the responsibility and the honor to look after the charming and sly Colonel Hans Landa to him.

 

 

_The room is a gray and cold cell. The light is illuminating only the two of them – on the other hand, he doesn't give a shit about anything else._

_Landa's feet are just above the floor, the chains which come from the ceiling and blockade his wrists are just the right length long: his arms can't be anything but almost stretched, and the same could be told about the rest of his body. He's naked. Such a well-served dish, ready to be properly cooked._

_Their eyes meet and yeah, the brilliant kraut is peeing himself; on his sweaty forehead, Aldo's masterpiece is just waiting for little brothers._

– _What do you want?_

_He's not shouting, but his voice and its sharp timbre are trembling and the words come out with difficulty._

_He doesn't answer because he's too busy stretching his fingers. The work is gonna be long._

– _Why are you here? – the other insists, the German accent a little more evident than usual. The chains rattle. Aldo looks at him with a satisfied little smile. That's a lady question. Quite the one he needs, the perfect one._

– _To look after you, Colonel. You krauts should like be covered with cares, don't you? Feel special._

_He walks up and stops right in front of him, hands on his hips. He likes his twisted face, the way his head is slightly turned to the right, like all Landa wants is to show him his back and run as hell. Most of all, he enjoys those eyes that despite everything keep staring at him, full of the fear they deserve. A truly entertaining show, screw the idiot-sniper-movie._

– _You actually are a little bit special, you know what I mean. But even with how much I trust your great skills, and maybe I do too much, I don't wanna send you to Nantucket unprepared. There are some details to be fixed, some precautions to be taken, some little things to think about and which in my opinion you would overlook, it's kinda an ambit in which you're a little inexperienced. Not at all, if the first lesson has done any good._

_He winks and can't help grinning, it's stronger than him. He feels so happy seeing the spasm of dread that goes through Landa's body from the tips of his hand fingers to his legs, which fidget._

– _Aldo – he gasps, his cracking voice trying to regain some of his old, enchanting ability of persuasion – It does not matter what you want to do, I am sure we can talk about it and reach a..._

– _Compromise? No, thanks – he cuts him off, because he knows that hearing him negotiate again will make him break his neck with his bare hands, and that's not the far he can go nor he wants to. He is still dealing with the indirect Hitler's assassin, after all – Come on, be a good schoolgirl and listen to me._

_He pulls out his knife from underneath his jacket, his beloved knife. Landa recognizes it: his eyes dart and his breath becomes even more uneven._

– _You wanted to keep it as a trophy, didn't you? – it's the comment that Aldo can't hold back, murmuring it like a caressing threat. This time Landa lowers his glance._

_The silence that follows is almost sublime and it's fun to delay it a little bit, but he actually aspires to something even better._

_He stands again straight on his leg, chin high, knife in his hand._

– _So, Colonel – he starts with loud, sharp voice – First thing I want to know is if you want to show off your Medal of Honor around._

– _I won't wear it – that slimy coward answers at once – Really, I will do what you want me to..._

– _You know I'm not good at believing a Nazi's word – he talks back with levity, unsheathing the knife – What if you feel like bewitching some unaware lady?_

– _Is what you have done to me not enough?!_

_He's shouting, for the first time. Messy tufts of hair are poorly covering his forehead. He's red with anger and fear, it's a last desperate try._

_And it's pure pleasure to be able to whisper..._

– _No._

_He puts his arm behind his back, he grabs his hair to keep him still; the tip of the knife begins to sink in his chest, on the left, just above his heart._

_He has heard plenty of screams, some more surely don't bother him. On the contrary, these ones are music, so perfectly similar to the ones in the forest, they cheer him – sure,it's different from usual, this is more difficult, but an artist should question himself and Landa shrieks but does not writhe, shakes but tries not to move, and looses his breath when a net cut touches his nipple but he still does not kick because the blood is so red in that tender spot, and Aldo knows he won't stab him in the heart, but Landa doesn't._

_The last mark is impressed with anger and his painter walks off, lowering his knife._

_Blood has soiled his jacket and his hands and drips on the floor after going across the whole body of that bastard, who whines, his face twitching in pain. It's fascinating to see the little puddle that the drops are creating under his left foot._

_He has made better swastikas, yes, but the mastery of his work is evident. He can't help being satisfied._

– _Every time you feel like wearing that medal try to think about what's beneath. Try to feel as the shit you are._

_He can see drops of sweat slipping into the gashes in the skin and making them burn._

– _You are a madman – Landa spits, his teeth gnashed – You are... and you all were... only madmen..._

– _You'll be glad to know a little thing we use to say and fits this situation – he answers, hardly curbing his anger back – “The pot calling the kettle black”. And you, you sons of a bitch, you surely are blacker than a fucking nigger ass._

_Because Donnie didn't smash innocents' skull, the scalps weren't innocents', the swastikas would have had no reason to be on innocents' foreheads._

_And speaking about this._

– _Let's go back to us – he starts again, after sucking a deep breath, looking at the blood-dirty blade that's still in his hand – Let's go back to Nantucket, to your cute little house, to the willing you will have to go around in the summer jumbling with tourists in shorts and t-shirt, even to wear a freaking swimsuit. I don't like it. I don't like it all. I like it so little that I don't even know where to begin. What do ya say?_

– _I made the war end – he has the guts to answer – You're alive thanks to me, Americans are alive thanks to me..._

– _And Jews are dead thanks to you. You could have used your brilliant little brain to pack in since the beginning, and you didn't. So, arms or legs?_

– _How can you pretend that I... that I..._

_He can't go on, his throat chocking and the spasms of pain still clutching him. It's time to end it._

– _All right, I've made up my mind, let's go down. A single real kick and your dick will be next._

_He kneels, he blocks his legs passing his left arm behind them and begins with the thigh already covered with the blood dripped from the chest._

_He isn't pissed off by the gasps, the spurts, the convulsive movements – he understands them, he approves them as well as the screams that have started again. And the Nazi is a good kid or maybe coward or maybe both, while the swastika is drawn afresh, big, with difficulty and with diligence, and the blood squirts on his face but it doesn't matter. It's all so slippery and red and deserved, more than deserved, and he's having so much fun, and he would love to record all those sounds to store them up forever, but he should have thought about it earlier. He doesn't let him perk up before going to his right shin, and that hard bone is a challenge and a help at the same time, even if he can't work right on the front – he decides to make two of them, on the sides, to them to be evident even if they're small. He risks to be hit by a knee on his nose, but he's too busy taking care of every little earpiece of that cursed symbol to wonder if it has been willing or not, and it could have not been, he can accord him that. It's right he's suffering, it's so damn right, and he's suffering like a cow in the slaughterhouse and that's exactly what he is, a Nazi fucking swine – and much, much worse – who gets what he deserves._

_They're good, all three of them._

– _A-Aldo... s-stop..._

_No, it would be a shame to stop, and he will never be able to inspire him even the slightest bit of mercy; he has said that he would look after him and he will go down with it. Plus, it's fun._

_He gets up, regaining his breath just for a moment before going around his prisoner, with a couple of calm steps in the puddle of blood on the floor. The sound thrills him and it's almost a pity to stop in the right spot to take care of the arm._

_He can see how the fingers twitch, clinging to the chains in a useless and wretched hunting for relief, while his body fidgets wildly; he can have some sneak-peeks of his nails, which try to scratch the metal, while he deals with the forearm; then he enjoys the sight of his shoulders wincing without a second of rest when he goes beyond the elbow and he has some more room and Landa really tries to get away from him._

_The arm, striped with red to the armpit, looks right like a painting, with some very quality decors._

_It's interesting to look at him while he keeps struggling. Tensing that arm is not an option anymore – rely the weight on the converse leg, neither, not at all, and the other one does not help._

_He stands behind him._

_That's the last._

_He begins with the middle, vertical mark. A bunch of inches, not even really deep, yet it causes a lacerating scream, so loud that there's no voice left for the horizontal one. Are they the same length? Yeah._

_On the top rightward – he almost misses for how hard the body is trembling under his hands._

_On the right downward – the shout breaks in his throat, a pathetic cough begins._

_On the bottom leftward – the blood is so copious._

_On the left upward – and Aldo throws the knife away._

_It's perfect._

_Dripping, red, the scar will be grisly._

_He hates it like hell, but he grips his hips to have a better look at it. An exhausted and wet silence lets him focus on the life that still throbs underneath that scattered skin – and for the first time he wonders what Landa really cares about in all that shit: the pain only, or the practical future difficulties, or if he really understands. He feels him shivering, sniveling. He knows he's suffering, he knows he's desperate. He doesn't know if it's for the right reason – and the doubt alone makes the rage boil again._

_It's not enough, it will never be._

_The blood shimmers and the skin is piping hot. If even only a particle of dignity is left, the one which is making him try to hush... it should not remain._

– _You're almost ready for your sun trip. But are you repenting, Jew Hunter? You know whose fault this is, don't you?_

_He doesn't know why he's trying. He doesn't even believe in it._

– _You... are not... different..._

_It's fury what is seething in his bowels, the fire that brings his hands to his belt to unfasten it and to lower his pants that much he needs._

_It's fury and it's pain what makes him founder into the bloody buttocks of damn Nazi, extorting him an exhausted scream, and it's not enough._

_He pushes hard, to take a pleasure that will not repay for years of war, will not bring back to life all the victims nor even Donnie nor none of his men, but at least will destroy that bastard in his body and soul – no gentleness, no regard for the defaced flesh, blood still runs and maybe that's the reason for Landa finds the strength to yell again, while he pants trying to be faster, to let it end in a rush but make it hurt, hurt, hurt._

_He closes his eyes and pulls his hair and growls fucking a hateful man because he hates him, to hear him beg and pray and plead, to get him feeling torn apart and broken forever, to make him understand what is like to have no escape from a humiliation thicker and more parching than any mark impress by fire or blade. The chains are screeching, the floor is slippery, the son of a bitch is imploring and crying and wailing in English or in German, it has no importance anymore._

_He bites him as he comes, grips the wounded arm and the pleasure explodes in his brain with a flash, the lightning of the theatre blowing up, of the krauts knocking him down, of Landa smiling in triumph on the other side of the desk..._

_He parts from him with a push and looks at him swaying – he can't let himself go because of the cuts, his whines are puny._

_Aldo's vision clears up little by little. He fixes his clothes and tries to wipe his forehead, with the only result of getting it soaked with blood._

_But he has quit panting when he goes back in front of him, in front of the bow head of a man that will never live normalcy again, ever. It's rewarding, even more than fucking him, even more than coming into a Nazi. Because the Nazi hasn't enjoyed it, even if they are all cocksuckers._

– _Do you have anything to tell me, Colonel?_

_The chains have a quake. The head gets up a tiny bit._

– _I'm sorry._

_He's lying. Aldo just knows it. But there's no way to not feel relief._

_Because those eyes have lost their predator look, every single hope to triumph. They only have the vile terror of the mouse he's always been. Of a shattered rat._

 

 

For sure, we can say that Aldo Raine has shattered a carton.

He makes a grimace of disappointment looking at the ripped and crimped paper on his desk. Something of the first, perfect pictures is still visible, but the biggest swastika has screwed everything and there's only to take the scissors and cut a bit more randomly, to hide the evidences. He knows well what lies behind those marks, the others don't – and, for God, the last thing he needs is to be mistaken for one of those wurstel and bloody crazy wars fanatics. His daydream wasn't that different from that definition, thinking about it, but it was only a daydream and now he feels better.

He's getting up to go and throw away all that rubbish, when he hears a wail from the next room. His daughter is not sleeping anymore.

He leaves the trash and runs to her – she's crying, but she stops when he picks her up.

– The young lady is becoming heavy – he grumbles, even if she's nothing but a soft and helpless dolly. She's beautiful, she really is, hell if she's not.

– You got it? – the smothered voice of his wife asks from the other side of the house.

– Yeah, honey! – he shouts out back to be sure she hears him, and Meredith mumbles as a protest against that annoying noise, wrinkles her little face and seems about to start crying again – What now, don't you want me to look after you?

“ _For God, you have nothing to fear from me. You're not a shitty Nazi, I'm damn sure_ ”.

This thought is so bitter. That little creature he loves so much wouldn't be there if it wasn't for Landa, and he couldn't take care of her at all.

Actually, it is a lecherous cycle; the only real solution is to stop thinking about it. By now he should have understood it, but he can submit to it only after getting his mind empty of quite a bunch of useless rancor. Now that he notices, his daughter should be a little less quiet, wake him up in the middle of the night more often and keep him busy, away from the theatre – a place in which he will always be not very happy to bring her to, but he hopes she won't blame him for much once she grows up.

Only one requirement: no trips to Nantucket. For no fucking reason in the world.


End file.
